


Honey and the Rain

by CharmingNotDarling



Category: Elementary (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-28 01:04:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2713262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharmingNotDarling/pseuds/CharmingNotDarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She thinks it's become a common ground for them... One always pushing where the other won't give.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honey and the Rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NairobiWonders](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NairobiWonders/gifts).



> Another one moved over, this one at the request of the lovely Nairobiwonders...

It's mid July, high summer, the kind of day heavy with heat and thick with the promise of rain.

She finds him on the rooftop, kneeling before the hives, pressing honey from the combs. The machinery is nearly ancient, all hand cranks and creaky gears and she can see the perspiration peppering the back of his shirt. She can only imagine that he's been there for some time.

She approaches, iced tea in hand, glasses slippery and dripping with condensation. She does not come bearing gifts in the form of apologies but she knows it's exactly how he'll take it. They've hit a wall, an impasse really. For most it would be considered nearly nothing but they've managed to build their wall stronger than meager mortar and brick. They've gone and laced it with pride and determination and a solid streak of stubborn. And yet it's nothing new and most definitely nothing they'll never see again. It's become a form of common ground for them, one always pushing where the other won't give.

She stops beside him, places his glass down within his line of sight, and lifts her own to her lips, ice cubes clinking as they slide and melt together. He attempts a surreptitious glance in the direction of his cup but the slight of her bare legs calls his attention permanently in her direction.

The sundress is pure white on white cotton and lace with a skirt that flares slightly, giving the illusion of hips and a hemline that pools just above her knees. There are skinny ribbons that pose as straps and they rise up from the bodice and are tied in imperfect little bow at her shoulders. He catches a glimpse of her bare feet just before she settles alongside him, tucking them behind her as she comes to rest on her shins.

"Drink." She invites him as she places her glass down beside his. He ignores her request and the desert rising in his throat in favor of drinking her in.

Her hair is pulled up and away from her body, piled high near the top of her head and her entire being makes him think of a ballerina: all her graceful limbs and sharp angles. Her eyes are both soft and shadowed, there's no apology in her expression but there's acceptance and understanding and the companionship he's always clung to like the air that fills his lungs. He never looks for it, would never begin to think it could one day cease to exist, he's taken advantage of her without seeing it as such, no one would see the air they breathe as a gift.

They share a moment of extended eye contact. It's unusual enough to have her shift under his gaze, he's not one for leaving opportunities open for leaving emotions on display. And yet in that moment he's allowed her to see more of what's really there and less of the show she's used to experiencing. She leans into his personal space too quickly. Drags his wandering mind back to the present while evading every almost boundary he's never really set as she grabs for his hands.

"Sherlock, look out!" He turns his eyes back to the press and they reach for the honey basin at the same time, exhort the same force and manage to simultaneously coat themselves in the honey he's spend the afternoon pressing.

It would appear she's become somewhat of a distraction.

She laughs outright at the obscurity of the situation and the sound startles them both. His instant reaction is to be annoyed, and for him no emotion is mild, so annoyance tends to run head first into anger. But when he looks up and sees her face light up with laughter, and when her eyes meet his and he sees that hers are more than just a little helpless, his mind shuts down.

There's honey coating her from finger tip to elbow, it's dripping all over the white cotton of her dress and along the curve of her knee. A few random strands of her dark hair fall across her eyes and without a thought or hesitation she moves to push them aside. Her laugh loses its bravo when the simple movement leaves her further iced in the liquid sugar.

Maybe it's the heat pushing him over the edge or the sound of her laughter that starts his heart rate jumping erratically, but when she turns her head just so and what's left of the sunlight hits the golden mess along the shell of her ear, the rise of her cheek, he can't keep his hands or his mouth to himself.

He's always so full of quick movements and relentless vigor, body and mind in tune down to the second, so when his actions take on an air of delicacy, she's taken by surprise.

He feathers his fingers into the hair at her temple, drags his thumb across the dusting of freckles along the bridge of her nose, her laughter fades after a moment and she becomes completely still.

He further traces her features, the angle of her chin, the curve of her lower lip, and when he locks her questioning eyes with his desperate ones, he lifts his other hand and purposefully drags his thumb through the honey coating her cheek.

His heart beat roars in his ears and the sky echo's the sound all around as the mid-summer storm creeps across the sky.

He lifts his hand to his mouth and sucks the honey and the taste of her skin from his finger. Her lips part and her breath starts to shutter in and out in quick little bursts. Her eyes dart to his mouth, they watch the way he drags his tongue over his lips and relishes the stickiness.

"Sherlock…" it's more question than statement but it's all she can manage as she subconsciously leans into him, eyes never leaving his mouth. His sticky fingers cup her cheek, her shoulder, his knuckles grazing her throat. They feather beneath the hem of her dress and leave golden trails along the back of her knees and the gentle curve of her thigh as he pulls her to him. He pushes the lace of her dress aside until she's settled in his lap, her knees flanking his hips.

There's no resistance from her, if anything she welcomes his actions with feverish desperation. There's impatience bubbling under her skin and desire thrumming through her veins.

She tastes like sin and promises, like sunshine at twilight and the mint from her tea.

She lifts her hands to take his face, ignoring the small part of her brain that's still working in favor of the feel of his skin under sweet, sticky fingers. She knows her expertise is no match for his. His hands are possessive, confident and sure. There's no hesitance in him, she feels as if his fingers know every plain of her skin, every angel of her bones, already have her body memorized. Like an old flame come back to rekindle a love that's burned down to ash or lust left to smolder in the coals to spontaneously combust.

And yet she's sure it's not like any of these things.

She knows she's important to him. Knows he would die for her, end lives for her, give everything he owns to keep her near and forever safe. She knows his knowledge of her body comes from their continuous invasion of all spaces personal and his endless need to understand the things he can't control.

His fingers tighten along the curve of her hip; they slip beneath the tiny band of cotton and follow the seam of her thigh, he stops when she presses her palm to his throat. She adds enough pressure to convey both desire and demand.

"We should get in out of the rain," she finally manages to say when he pulls his face back far enough for only words to fit between their lips.

He hadn't even notice that the sky had opened up above them.


End file.
